


Make a Wish

by cyrene



Category: Velvet Goldmine
Genre: Brian who?, Getting Back Together, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Post-Canon, The infamous foul mouth of Curt Wild
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-22
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2020-10-25 17:47:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20728262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyrene/pseuds/cyrene
Summary: He shows up at Arthur’s house three days later with a guitar case.AND THEN THEY GET. IT. ON. Seriously. That's all this is.





	Make a Wish

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt at smut of any kind, and my first work in this fandom, so do be kind, darlings.

He shows up at Arthur’s house three days later with a guitar case. Arthur is wearing the pin, hasn’t taken it off in three days, and Curt notices immediately. He grins that wide, crooked grin of his, and Arthur blushes like a teenager, his face hot and flushed.

“What are you doing here?” he hisses, dragging Curt inside by the arm. “It isn’t safe!”

“Safe as life,” Curt shrugs. “I’d be just as dead if I never see you again.”

And what, exactly, is that supposed to mean? It’s so dramatic, so… so Curt.

The past three days have been, for Arthur, like plucking the petals off a flower: “He remembers me!” and “He remembers me not.” Back and forth in his mind, suddenly fragile with the notion that he might have meant more to the infamous Curt Wild than just a one night stand with a young groupie. There might be someone (besides the Flaming Creatures, of course) who remembers Arthur back when he was young and bold, and the terror didn’t hold him back.

The record player is on. The Ramones are echoing Arthur’s wish for a sedative. As soon as the door closes behind him, Curt's stance changes, becomes more predatory. He stalks around Arthur, who turns to follow so his back is now to the door. Curt takes a step forward; Arthur takes a step back. His back is against the door now, and Curt is leaning in closer, looking up at Arthur through his smudgy lined eyes.

“Make a wish…” Curt whispers in that fucking American accent. God, it’s so beautiful; Curt is so beautiful. His mouth is so close that Arthur can feel the little whoosh of breath from the “sh" in the word “wish".

Arthur, in his mind, plucks the final petal -- “He remembers me!” – as he surges forward to close the space between their mouths.

Kissing Curt Wild is like kissing a storm – no, a hurricane. Arthur is genuinely surprised, when he pulls away to gasp in breath, that no wind is whipping his hair, no rain soaking him to the bones. He stares at Curt, wide eyed and unsure, but Curt Wild has probably never been unsure in his life. Curt goes in for another kiss, and another, until Arthur can’t breathe again.

Arthur is not seventeen anymore. He wants to know What This Means and Where They are Going from Here, and other adult questions that a gay man in these modern times should be too afraid not to ask. But maybe part of Arthur is still young after all, young and bold and willingly trapped in Hurricane Curt. So when Curt sinks to his knees, those black-rimmed eyes looking up at Arthur with mischief and desire, Arthur leans back into the door, banging his head a bit harder than he would have liked. When Curt, not roughly but not gently either, yanks down Arthur’s pyjama bottoms and pants and takes him in hand, Arthur can hear himself chanting, as if from somewhere far away, “Yes, yes, yes…”

Curt licks a stripe up the length of him, using the moisture to aid him as he jerks Arthur fast and hard. After a few minutes – or, let’s be realistic, maybe one minute—Arthur is harder than he’s ever been in his life. He could die happy, just knowing that Curt chose to be here, doing this, never mind the reasons. Never mind even coming. Arthur would be happy with just what he’s got, just this once.

Curt, on the other hand… Arthur knows that he is a man of extremes: he will be desolate or he will be ecstatic, with no happy medium. That kind of existence is infectious, and Arthur can feel himself losing control in a way he has not done for almost a decade.

That moment, when Arthur is finally about to burst like a star, is when Curt slows down. Arthur whimpers and looks down, where those eyes are still boring holes into his soul. Curt grins up at him and, keeping deliberate eye contact, pulls Arthur’s foreskin back and slides his mouth slowly down over Arthur’s cock.

It is unequivocally the best head of Arthur’s life in ways he is at a loss to describe. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands; they flutter at his sides and press against the door until Curt stops for a moment to guide Arthur’s hands into his long hair. Curt scrunches Arthur’s hands into his hair a little, as if to say “Hold on…” and goes back to what he was doing with enthusiasm.

The feel of his hands gripping Curt's hair, and of Curt’s hands gripping his hips, and that beautiful, talented mouth working for him is too much for Arthur to bear for long. Before things go too far, he loosens his grip and says, “Curt. Curt!”

He can feel Curt’s smile around him as Curt jerks him forward by the hips, sucking and licking at the same time, and before Arthur can make a formal protest, he’s seeing shooting stars. He’s coming, he’s coming, and Curt is fucking drinking it down like milk, and Arthur thinks this may be the best it’s been in years.

It takes him a moment to gather himself and remember the specifics of this situation: namely what year it is and why he hasn’t has a blowjob this good since, what, 1981? ‘82?

“Oh god, oh Curt, oh my god!”

“Never been called fucking god before,” Curt jokes, wiping his mouth with his thumb and licking off what’s left. “Kidding, I fucking well have.” Then he sees the look of horror on Arthur’s face and frowns.

“What if I’m sick, Curt? You haven’t seen me in – you don’t know what I’ve been up to! I could have it!”

Curt laughs, not in a mean way, but in a way that makes him look younger, more like he had that night on the rooftop.

“Arthur Stuart, from the Herald? With your fucking khakis and shit? No, you’re too careful. That’s probably the first real blowjob you’ve had since the papers started reporting ‘gay cancer.’”

“Damn you,” Arthur replies, but he’s smiling a little. Because of course Curt is right. And because that means that someone as great and amazing as Curt Wild knows him, he knows stupid, boring, little Arthur Stuart enough to predict him accurately.

Curt laughs, throwing his head back like a kid. But then his face turns serious again.

“I don’t expect that kind of trust from you,” Curt says, looking up at Arthur from his knees with such sincerity that Arthur could cry. “I just… fuck, Arthur, I’ve been waiting for this for a fucking decade!”

“Me?” Arthur asks, incredulous and very conscious of the fact that his pants are around his ankles and his dick is out. He quickly sets about rectifying this to cover the pathetic blush heating his face.

“Fuck yeah, you.”

Curt is sitting back on the floor now, legs crossed and arms spread wide to accentuate his statement. His shirt is wrinkled and his pants are too tight, and his hair is wrecked. Arthur feels as though his ability to breathe is in serious question.

“Why did you leave?”

The words are out of his mouth before he can bite them back, and Arthur could kick himself, especially when he sees Curt’s smile fade into a wince.

“I went downstairs to call Jack.”

“Jack Fairy?!”

“Yeah, you know him?”

Arthur shakes his head. “Saw him a couple of times, but no. I was never that cool.” He smiles to show that he’s got the joke.

“Well, between the fact that I was a raging addict and you were, what, nineteen?”

“Seventeen.”

“Fucking Christ.” Curt rubs his hands across his face. “Seventeen. It’s a fucking good thing I did call Jack. He convinced me not to ruin your fucking life. And, Arthur, I would have. I would have fucking wrecked you, even if you never touched the heroin.”

He reaches a hand up, which Arthur takes without thinking, sitting down across from Curt on the entryway floor of his flat.

“I’m clean now,” Curt says, and his eyes are locked intensely to Arthur’s. “Five years now, I’m clean, I fucking swear on it. And I --" here he hesitates a moment, almost as if he is uncertain, before continuing. “I think I deserve nice fucking things, don’t you?”

“I’ve always wanted the very best for you,” Arthur admits, and it costs him nothing to say it. “But… me?”

Curt laughs again, and it’s harsh and melodic simultaneously, and Arthur’s heart starts pumping blood double time.

“I don’t believe in god,” Curt says bitterly. “But when they asked me what I do believe in, what higher power I was willing to answer to… I said Arthur Stuart. I wanted to get sober and find you, and show you something better than I could have given you then.”

Arthur resists the urge to ask if Curt is sure they are discussing the same Arthur Stuart. His brain and heart are out of sync; his whole body feels as though it’s coming apart at the seams.

“Look,” Curt says, and he is definitely uncertain now, “if all you want is this one-off, if there’s some boyfriend or pretty wife about to come home, then just tell me to fuck off. But I had to know. For absolutely fucking sure. Would you still want me?”

Arthur doesn’t even hesitate. He throws himself into Curt’s arms, kissing him recklessly. When he comes up for breath, Curt has the biggest grin Arthur has ever seen on him.

“Fuck, really?” he asks, and Arthur grins too.

“For absolutely fucking sure.”

Curt hauls Arthur up to standing and immediately crowds his space, kissing and licking his way into Arthur’s mouth in such a filthy, lovely way it’s already got Arthur half ready to go again.

“Bed,” Curt growls, low and demanding. He looks around, assessing the situation, and picks the correct route to Arthur’s bedroom.

They fall into bed with a laugh, just like in a movie or something, and Curt is immediately in Arthur’s space again, kissing and nipping at skin, and tugging at what little clothes Arthur has on.

Curt stops for a moment when Arthur is completely naked, his eyes wide and wondrous. He runs just one finger down Arthur’s body, starting at the crown of his head and ending at the sole of his left foot.

“I can’t believe,” he says, voice full of awe, “that I can have you.”

“I’m all yours,” Arthur says, voice steady as he begins to divest Curt of his clothing.

Curt is just as beautiful as Arthur remembers from their previous encounter. Though he is less skinny he is more toned. Though his eyes are more thoughtful, they are brighter.

Curt has come prepared to come (ha ha) and he pulls a trial size packet of lube and a condom out of his pocket. He plays with Arthur for a good long while, making Arthur beg for each new finger Curt adds and moan with the slow intensity of it. Curt, with his very limited attention span, has the ability to utterly focus on what’s in front of him when he wants to, and right now he is focusing on Arthur.

“Curt,” he begs, his voice needy and broken, “Curt, I’m ready, I’m fucking ready!”

Curt smiles as he rolls on the condom, applying the last of the lube from his little packet. Arthur moves to get up, to turn over, but Curt gently guides him down onto his back.

“Like this,” he says in a husky voice. “I wanna see you.”

Arthur bites his lip, because he is not going to cry during sex like a loser.

Curt pushes in slowly, and waits until Arthur is practically squirming before he moves again. When he does, it’s not at all what Arthur expects, but everything he could hope for.

They’re making love. Curt is moving in him so slow and sweet that Arthur makes this embarrassing keening sound in the back of his throat, which Curt kisses and licks up greedily.

“Curt,” Arthur whines, “Curt, Curt, please – I need – you --"

Curt speeds up, then, and Arthur is holding on for dear life, his hands gripping Curt’s biceps and his legs wrapped around Curt’s waist. He knows he’s screaming too loud and the neighbors will hear, but he can’t help it. This is just. Too. Good.

“Oh god – oh Curt --!”

“Yes, Arthur, come for me --"

And Arthur did, with another cry, and then he’s saying, “I’m yours, yours, yours, come now, please, Curt!”

Curt comes with a shout and stills above Arthur, his mouth open and his eyes wide. Arthur leans up to kiss him, but Curt pulls back a little.

“D’you really mean it?” he asks, and upon seeing Arthur’s confusion adds, “That you’re…?”

Arthur closes the gap between them for a lingering kiss.

“Yours,” he whispers into Curt’s mouth. “Yours.”

They get up an indeterminate amount of time later, after lounging around kissing and touching and whispering to each other. Curt, brazenly naked, or perhaps he just doesn’t notice, pulls out his guitar and strums a little.

He sings, softly, a song about the stars and a rooftop and making love. It’s a song of longing and joy and sadness all at once, about lovers who must part but will someday meet again.

Arthur can feel the back of his throat constricting. It’s good stuff, and he can tell no one real – no one outside Curt’s circle that is – has ever heard it. Certainly it’s never been released.

“Jack and I were thinking of cutting a record,” Curt says, cutting into Arthur’s thoughts. “I was thinking of doing a kind of unplugged thing, you know? Is that stupid?” He’s looking at Arthur out of the corner of his eye, like he’s waiting to get shot down.

“Not at all,” Arthur practically gushes, “not one bit! When can you call MTV? Hell, Curt, use my phone!”

Curt is laughing again, and Arthur really can’t get enough of that. He’s going to make it his mission to make Curt Wild laugh five times a day every day for the rest of their lives.

Curt is singing again, a more jovial song that he is obviously making up on the spot, because it’s about fucking a handsome Brit with a “luscious ass" and Arthur can’t stop laughing as Curt really hams it up.

Something inside him has loosened up, and Arthur hasn’t even realized he’d been wound so tight.

“Would you like to have dinner with me?” he asks carelessly.

Curt looks up from his guitar. “Fuck yeah. What’re we making?” he asks, casual.

“Not a damn thing to eat in this house,” Arthur replies with a laugh. “Would you mind terribly if we were seen in public together?”

“Fuck no,” Curt says, but it sounds choked, emotional. “I know this really great pizza joint just a couple of blocks away.”

“Sounds great,” Arthur says, casually. Curt kisses him, then, over the guitar, slow and sweet, and Arthur thinks that this is how he wants to go: in this man’s care.

“You’ll have to put on clothes, you know,” Arthur says when they part.

“Fuck,” Curt growls, “I knew there’d be a fucking catch.”


End file.
